


hold onto your heart (you’ll keep it safe)

by aceofdiamonds



Series: soulmates au [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Pseudo-Incest, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sansa turns eleven her wrist burns. She excitedly unwraps the cloth guarding her skin, waiting eagerly for the name to finish forming. The dark letters stop after only three and when Sansa leans in closer she realises that she knows that name and she knows that handwriting already.</p><p>where almost everything is the same but people have soulmates on their wrists and sansa can't believe hers is her half-brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold onto your heart (you’ll keep it safe)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been so much fun to write. this is about sansa having jon as a soulmate but it's also about sansa not having joffrey as a soulmate and therefore how different she thinks and acts because of that lack of adoration. title is from various storms and saints by florence + the machine.

 

When Sansa turns eleven her wrist burns. She excitedly unwraps the cloth guarding her skin, waiting eagerly for the name to finish forming. The dark letters stop after only three and when Sansa leans in closer she realises that she knows that name and she knows that handwriting already.

Her hand flies to her mouth as she stares in horror at who the gods have told her she is destined to be with. This is wrong, _sick_ , and it ruins all of her dreams of marrying a prince and right now, as she sits in her bed and fights against her tears, she doesn’t know which is worse.

She re-knots the cloth around her wrist, the name disappearing out of her sight. She takes a deep breath and then another one before she goes down the stairs to tell her mother that her soulmate name has appeared but she has no idea who he is. Her mother hugs her close and tells her about how she met her father, that long complicated story that makes Sansa swoon and hope for true love, her hopes dashed as soon as she remembers the name branded on her wrist.

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“Let me see your name, Sansa,” Arya demands when they’re out playing in the gardens later.

Sansa pulls away from the hand clutching at her sleeve. “No, Arya! It’s private.”

“Robb hasn’t kept his private,” she argues, still scrabbling. “Everyone knows his is Jeyne.”

“Not Jeyne Poole,” Sansa says because she knows her best friend’s writing and it’s much neater than the scrawl along Robb’s arm.

“Well,” Arya huffs, “everyone knows it’s a girl called Jeyne. Come _on_ , Sansa.”

“ _No_ , Arya.” Sansa can’t imagine what Arya would say. Perhaps it would be different for her. She loves Jon more than she loves Sansa, she is sure. Perhaps the idea of being soulmates would be enjoyable for her, she would see it as spending her life with her best friend. Sansa doesn’t want that. She longs for swooning romance and a hero who treats her like she’s the most important thing in his world and this morning this was all snatched from her. If she has less than welcoming feelings towards her half-brother he returns them just as strongly, the two siblings most like their parents but furthest from each other. To be given his name on her arm, to be told that the Seven have declared him her true love, makes her wonder, just for a moment, if soulmates are true.

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Of course soulmates are real and true. Sansa has been raised on stories of long lost loves finding each other in their last moments, of ladies who have died before their soulmate returned from battle, of how her own mother and father learned to love each other despite the scarred names on their wrists. But Sansa refuses to let herself weep over Jon and their bond. She still whispers with Jeyne about the handsome stable-boy and the fashion of the ladies who visit from across the North with their powerful husbands. She makes sure her wrist is always covered by her cloth and it’s almost possible to forget all about this thing she’s waited her whole life to know.

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“Sansa!”

Sansa hurries out of her solar and down to the grounds where her siblings are each clutching a small fluffy animal. When Sansa gets closer she realises they’re direwolf puppies. She’s heard the tales told about these vicious beasts that can tear a man’s head off in one bite but it’s so hard to believe when they’re tiny and squirming in her siblings’ arms.

She laughs delightedly. “Where did you find them?”

“Beside their dead mother,” their father says with an apologetic look to their mother. “I was outnumbered,” he explains to her which only increases the tightness in her lips.

“ _Direwolves_ , Ned?” she hisses, waving a hand at the small pup struggling in Robb’s arms. Robb runs a finger along its snout; it yaps twice before settling down into his hold, more content than before.

“We’ll look after them, Mother,” Bran insists. He’s copying Robb’s trick but his direwolf continues to yelp until it wriggles free and runs circles around Bran’s feet. Rickon squeals with excitement, setting down the dark grey one he is holding and clapping his hands to encourage his direwolf to copy his brother. Instead the puppy barks, a sharp whine, and then settles at Rickon’s feet, his tail curling around Rickon’s heel.

“They won’t cause any harm,” Arya says. She has picked up the one with the flecks of auburn in their fur and is holding her close to her chest. “And they’re our sigil -- we _have_ to have them.”

“They’re direwolves, Arya. They’ll grow into vicious beasts,” but Sansa can see that their mother is softening, coming around to the idea. “Perhaps they’ll be useful as protection.”

Rickon whoops and then he and Bran are running across the grounds, their wolves trying to keep up with them on their tiny legs.

“I’m going to show Theon,” Robb tells them. Despite Theon being in the party who found them he’s since disappeared, no doubt angry that there’s no pup for him.

“Micah’s going to be so jealous,” Arya says and then she’s gone too, wolf scooped in her arms.

“Sansa, this one’s yours,” Jon says when it’s only the two of them left.

Sansa hasn’t spent much time with Jon since she turned eleven and she finds she doesn’t know what to say. She’s always had a way she’s spoken to Jon, a way she’s learned from her mother, but that doesn’t seem right now she has this _thing_ on her arm. “Thank you, Jon,” she replies, taking the puppy he’s holding out to her. It’s a tiny little thing, dusted with grey fur so soft in Sansa’s hand, and when she holds it up to her face it opens its mouth and yawns. “Oh, she’s lovely!”

Jon is still hovering beside her and she feels the need to be pleasant to him. “Did you not get one, Jon?” She doesn’t add on any comments about only real Stark children getting them even though she’s thinking them.

“No, I did,” Jon tells her and then he does one of those rare smiles. He’s always so sombre, even when they were younger and playing their games he would rarely laugh. At three-and-ten he’s growing into his face more and the smile doesn’t look as out of place as it once would. It grows in size when he opens his furs and shows Sansa the white wolf that is nestled against his body. “He’s a bit different,” he admits, and then he adds, “Just like me.”

But Sansa has grown tired of the conversation by the point and wants to spend time with her wolf pup and so she nods her agreement. “Septa Mordane has always told us not to trust anyone that’s different.”

Later, much later, she feels a little guilty about what she had said and the way Jon’s face had crumpled slightly before resuming his stoic frown, but not enough to seek him out and apologise. She decides it would look suspicious if she began to be much friendlier to Jon, people may ask questions, and so she goes to find Jeyne and show her Lady, her beautiful new direwolf.

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As the pups grow  they spend the time not spent with their Starks wrestling with each other, high-pitched howls piercing the air as they tumble across the grounds. Other people are wary of them, however small they may be, but Sansa and her brothers and sister stand around them, watching as they wriggle and snap at each other playfully.

"Look!" Arya giggles, pointing. "Lady and Ghost keep licking each other."

"Lady's just being nice," Sansa says defensively, watching her direwolf enthusiastically climb on top of Ghost, muzzle burrowing in Ghost's fur.

"I think yours and Jon's like each other best," Robb says with a laugh in his voice because isn't it funny that the two siblings who are furthest apart are the ones whose beasts can't leave each other alone.

Jon wanders over to Sansa's side. His shoulder presses against hers and Sansa doesn’t move away immediately, almost leaning in to the warmth. “I found them curled up together earlier near the sept, did you see them?”

She had. They had looked beautiful together, their furs blurring into one. Sansa had run her hand over Lady’s snout and then Ghost’s, both of them snuffling gently before returning to their sleep. Now she turns to Jon, disapproval clear on her face. “I’ll need to train Lady out of such behaviour. She can’t be seen associating that way with the runt of the group.”

It cuts too close to the bone. Jon scowls at her, waving off Arya when she rushes to his defence. “They’re only wolves, Sansa, don’t worry about it.”

And then he walks away, Ghost falling into step by his heels, and Sansa is left feeling a disgusting mix of guilt and shame. Lady whines pitifully at her feet.

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When Jon falls off of his horse one day when he’s out riding with Robb, Sansa is the first to greet them at the door, knowing something was wrong from all this way away. She doesn’t know how she knew, all that had happened was that she felt her arm twinge, right where Jon is cradling his now, and she felt herself drawn to wherever Jon is.

"Sansa?" Robb says, confused, when they reach her. "What are you doing down here? Don't you have needlework with Septa Mordane?"

She nods, eyes scanning over Jon. "Yes. I was just getting some fresh air. What's happened to Jon?"

"Fell off my horse," Jon mutters. When she frowns he adds. "It was rocky and he slipped.”

He’s staring at her like he expects her to sneer at him the way her lady mother does or even laugh at his foolishness but there’s something here, something that has her concerned about his wellbeing, and so she winces sympathetically and reaches out to examine his arm before either of them can think much more of it. “Oh, Jon, it looks sore. Robb, you better take Jon to Maester Luwin quickly.”

“That’s where we were going,” Robb says, stamping his feet impatiently. It's still summer but it's ending slowly, the days become shorter and darker, and when Sansa wakes in the morning she can feel the cold deep in her toes as soon as she steps out of of her bed. She adores the beauty and life of summer but winter is how she was born and it’s where she feels she belongs.

“I could take him,” Sansa offers.

Robb narrows his eyes. “I thought you had needlework.”

“Septa Mordane’s been helping Arya with hers all morning -- you know she’s hopeless. She won’t notice I’m gone.”

“Sansa,” Jon says, still holding his arm like if he lets go it’ll shatter. Sansa is still holding his elbow, too, and when she notices she steps back smartly. “I’ll be fine with Robb.”

Flushing, she huffs, pretends she doesn't care at all. "I'll go back to my needlework then, if you don't want my help."

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Jon finds her later when she’s praying in the sept. His arm is held against his body with cloth and he grimaces when he sits on the stone ground and waits for her to finish.

Robb has no patience for any of the stems of worship unless he has a real cause to but, like their father, Jon prays to the Old Gods. Sansa has seen him sometimes, kneeling down and murmuring to himself before rising again quickly, as though worried someone may have seen him and will admonish him for it. When Sansa prays she does so with every part of her body, holding herself out for the help and judgement of the Seven. Although she has equal faith in all of his faces, Sansa often asks for the Maiden’s help, particularly since her name-day when her previously unwavering wish for love was called into question, and now, again, she is asking what they could have been thinking when they branded her with her half-brother’s name.

When she has finished she joins Jon on the ground, stretching her legs out. He has brought Ghost with him; he curls up against Sansa’s side, his head resting on her knees, a warm, heavy weight. “Did Maester Luwin sort your arm?” It’s a useless sentence, one with a clear response, but here in the quiet of the wood, she finds herself quite without anything else to say.

“I’ve only sprained it,” Jon says. “It hurts, though.”

Sansa murmurs a sympathy, wonders if this will change anything between them. Perhaps she could build a friendship with Jon. When they were younger they would all play together; she remembers Jon was always good at being the knight when Robb was too busy with Theon. Now that she is eleven and he is three-and-ten they’re a little too old for princesses and knights but perhaps she could give him more of a chance -- if the Seven say they’re soulmates there must be a reason for it. As much as she may wish it they don’t get these things wrong.

“Jon,” she says tentatively. “Who’s your soulmate?”

He directs his gaze up to the darkened ceiling above their heads. When they were younger they would play hide and seek in here, Arya and Robb always scaring Sansa before she had a chance to hunt for them. The moment stretches out longer and longer until Sansa is wishing she never asked. For all her worrying and disgust at Jon being her soulmate she never considered the thought that she might not be Jon’s.

“I don’t know them,” he says finally, turning to look at her. His eyes are dark and stormy and, as Sansa never trained herself to read them the way she can Arya’s or Bran’s, she has no idea what he’s feeling.

She knows that she feels like she’s breaking inside which is stupid because only last moon she was weeping over being his soulmate at all and now she’s disappointed. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry about earlier, Sansa,” he says when all Sansa can do is furrow her brow and try not to weep. “I didn’t want you to miss needlework because of me.”

“Well it looks like it would have been a waste of time anyway,” she replies, getting to her feet. She refuses the hand Jon offers, instead wiping the dirt off of her dress and raising her chin just a little, the image of aloofness. She has always been tall, even at eleven she’s the height of Jon and Robb, and if she acts it she can add another few inches leaving her towering above Jon. “It was only a sprain.”

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Perhaps the Jon on her wrist isn’t Jon Snow but someone from the South, a handsome knight who would adore her and bring her flowers from their garden every day to show how much he loves her. Perhaps he’s a lord from a noble house; a Tyrell brother or a bronzed knight from Dorne. Given that she is a highborn it would make the most sense to be bonded with someone with her lineage rather than a bastard. She shudders every time she thinks of that possibility, shame pulsing through her at the thought that she may have a bastard as a soulmate and they don’t even have her.

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When King Robert and his family come to the North, Sansa and Jeyne giggle and whisper at the sight of all the Baratheon bannermen, so strong and important, and dart about Winterfell in the hope to glimpse Prince Joffrey. The Prince is tall and blond and when he smiles at Sansa in the hall she claps her hand to her mouth to hide her huge smile that shows all of her teeth. Such a smile isn’t becoming of a lady.

“Oh, isn’t he handsome, Jeyne?” she sighs that night in her solar. There’s to be a feast tomorrow as it’s the final night of the King’s stay. Sansa wonders if she’ll be able to find a space next to Joffrey for the meal. “His eyes are so blue.”

“Are you sure he’s not your soul mate?” Jeyne asks, trying again to get Sansa to show her her name. She feels horrible keeping this a secret from her best friend but even Jeyne wouldn’t look her in the eye if she knew. “Show me your name and I’ll see -- maybe you’re not reading it correctly.”

But Sansa has tried to make it look like the _n_ could curve into two _f_ s for _Joff_ , the Queen’s pet name for her son, but it’s hopeless as she knows Joffrey’s soulmate is a maiden from Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell. There had been a scandal with that reveal as Margaery is already married to Renly Baratheon, Joffrey’s uncle. The King had laughed and laughed as he had told Sansa’s father about it as though there was nothing funnier than his brother’s broken heart.

“There’s no harm in talking to him,” Jeyne says when Sansa shakes her head, voice lowered as though she’s suggesting something scandalous. “You know some people have other --,” she pauses, blushes prettily, “-- other lovers before they meet their soulmate.”

“ _Jeyne_ ,” Sansa squeals. “He’s the _Prince_. He’s not looking for someone to share his bed.”

And Jeyne just shrugs and says, "I would share his bed," before she shuffles down the bed and under the furs. She shouldn’t be sleeping here, not when there are so many important people around the castle, Sansa’s mother wouldn’t approve, but Sansa slides in beside her and falls asleep.

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“I don’t _want_ to go to King’s Landing,” Arya sulks when they’re told the news -- their father is going to be the Hand to the King and Sansa and Arya are going with him to allow them to see more of Westeros and to practice the skills they've been learning with their Septa. Sansa is so excited she can’t find sleep before they leave, tossing and turning with the thought of leaving Winterfell and exploring Westeros looping through her mind.

Their mother isn’t happy about the arrangements but she can’t leave, not when poor Bran is lying in his bed, a broken boy. Robb is to rule Winterfell in their father’s stead and, with nowhere else to go, Jon is going to join the Night’s Watch. This is the part Arya is the most upset about, Sansa knows. She wails and whines about never being able to see Jon again and Sansa tuts at her but inside she’s wondering the same. She wonders what this means for her, if Jon really is her soulmate; if he takes the oath at the Wall to have no wife or family does this leave her in the place of someone with a scarred name or no name at all? Sansa hates the feeling of confusion rolling around inside of her. It’s taking away from the excitement of being able to finally see the places she’s heard so much about.

“I wish you weren’t coming,” she says to Arya viciously as they prepare to leave. “You’re going to spoil _everything_.”

Arya glares at her, that stupid sword Jon gave her glinting at her waist. “All you care about is finding your _soulmate_. I bet he isn’t even in King’s Landing.”

“He might be,” Sansa argues, turning her head away because annoyingly Arya has always been able to tell when she’s lying. “I hope he is so I can move away with him and never see you again.”

“Girls,” their mother calls just as Arya is about to reply. “Please don’t spend the whole time arguing. Promise me.” They both mumble promises, arms folded tight and eyes still narrowed. “Good. I’m going to miss you both so much,” she says, pulling them both against her. Suddenly frantic that this is the last time she is going to see her mother for a long time Sansa burrows her face in her shoulder and breathes in, trying to commit the sweet smell to memory. “Hopefully this won’t be for long,” their mother says once they’ve pulled away. “We’ll all be together again soon.”

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Sansa can’t believe how different King’s Landing is from Winterfell. Where Winterfell is quieter and more reserved the noise of the capital is loud and brash, everyone walking with a purpose. There are stalls everywhere Sansa looks, charming owners calling out to passers-by, tempting them to buy their wares. Sansa rides close to her father with Arya a step behind them, so in awe of this new place but still hanging onto the protection of her family.

“Is this how it was when you were here last, Father?” Sansa asks, smiling at a small child who points at her hair when she passes.

“The last time I was here was during the Uprising,” is all he says, head bent low, and that’s answer enough. Sansa copies his pose, avoids the gaze of the hungry people clamouring around them. Septa Mordane has always told her she’s had an overactive imagination and now it’s spiralling wildly out of control -- she can see the people around her dead on the ground, families torn apart by men who promised to do them good. The city walls warp and spin into an unrecognisable sight, one that makes her wary of continuing into the Red Keep, the heart of the city.

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The King dies while out boar hunting and everything changes.

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The boy you want to fall in love with turns out to be an awful horrible person; it’s a cruel lesson to learn. Joffrey spends his time sprawled on the Iron Throne, turning away people desperate for food and laughing in the faces of those who come to him for help. His mother stands beside him, a cruel smirk on her beautiful face, and together they break down every bit of trust that King Robert had managed to create between the royal family and the people of Westeros.

Sansa finds herself caught in the middle of it all, unable to find peace for more than a handful of minutes in the godswood where she prays for everyone to remain safe. The godswood had always been her father’s place of worship, all her siblings’ too, and now she is separated from them all she finds herself visiting there more often than the sept. She misses Winterfell desperately. She misses the cool open halls, the kindness of the people around them; most of all, she misses her family. Her father had been sent a raven telling them that Bran has awoken but that he will never walk again. Half of Sansa’s memories feature Bran climbing various walls of the castle, their mother telling him to get down as he reached dizzier and dizzier heights, and she feels a stab of sympathy every time she thinks of him never being able to do that again.

A part of her heart, the smaller part that is not yearning to be returned to her mother and brothers, is aching so strongly she can only imagine it is searching for Jon. When they had left Winterfell Sansa hadn’t even said goodbye to Jon, still distraught over the idea that she may not be his soulmate. She hates that she did not have a chance to tell him that she would miss him and if she could have had a way she would have brought him with them to King’s Landing. Their father and Arya would have been overjoyed to have Jon accompany them but their mother would never have allowed it.

Sansa has been her mother’s daughter for her whole life and although she still is in many ways she is certain that her mother has never wished to see Jon Snow as much as Sansa does now.

She has had enough of King’s Landing and of the South -- she wants to go _home_.

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When her father tells her to pack her things quickly, Sansa’s heart leaps with a hope she hasn’t felt since they arrived in King’s Landing. She whispers a prayer to the Seven, thanking them for everything, for helping her get out of this awful awful place. “But why are we leaving, Father?” she asks, trying not to weep with relief.

His voice is lowered when he leans in and tells her, “Joffrey is not the rightful king. I’ve sent a raven to Stannis informing him that he should fight for the throne. It’s not safe here anymore. Now, quickly, get ready. Have you seen your sister?”

“Not since yesterday,” Sansa says, not paying attention to the lady maid who has stolen out of the room. “Father, are we really going home?”

His face softens and he reaches out to brush a hand across her forehead. “I’m sorry, Sansa, I know you wanted to get to know Joffrey better but you and Arya need to go back to Winterfell as soon as possible.”

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“Ser Illyn, bring me his head,” the new King cries, and Sansa can do nothing but scream and shake as her father is killed before her eyes.

There’s a pain that cuts deep within her at the death of a parent. It wrenches her heart out of her chest and throws it to the ground where Joffrey and his Kingsguard stamp on it over and over again.

Cersei proclaims Sansa and her family traitors, dirtying them before the seven Kingdoms. She stands and spits out lies about Sansa running to her with her father’s plans and when Sansa protests, she would never, she wanted to go home so much, Cersei laughs a bitter laugh in her face and sends her to her chambers.

A foolish thought had burrowed into her brain that perhaps she would be allowed to go to her mother now that she is no use to the Lannisters but her mother and her brother are fighting with the Queen Regent’s brother in their hold and it turns out that since no one has seen Arya for days Sansa is a bigger bargaining tool than ever.

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Several days after her father’s execution Sansa wakes in the middle of the night with a pain in her hand so severe she retches into the pan beneath her bed but when she rocks back onto her heels and carefully lifts her hand she can’t see a mark. Another wave of pain pulses over her and she bites back a scream, holding her hand tight against her chest.

The pain lasts for the rest of the night, getting worse for moments before ebbing slowly to a dull throb. Sansa cradles it in a bed of pillows and watches the sun rise across the sky. She remembers the last time she had felt an ache with no wound in sight -- when Jon had fallen from his horse and Sansa’s arm had hurt just as though she had been the one on the ground. It’s an absurd thought that she’s glad of the pain but this means Jon is still alive somewhere and that’s enough to stop her crying out.

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Ravens come from the North, bringing details of Robb’s victories and Jaime Lannister’s capture. The King goes on a rage that Sansa bears the brunt of in the middle of the throne room surrounded by the noble people of King’s Landing. When the Hound rescues her she shakes and shakes all the way to her chambers, his cloak clutched around her.

"Ye'll do best to keep yer head down, little bird," The Hound tells her once she's within the safety of her chambers. Not that there's much safety there. Sansa is aware that half of her maids are spies from the Queen and therefore she is watched wherever she turns. But there is one, Shae, who is outspoken and proud and who treats Sansa more like a friend or sibling. In times before Sansa would have removed an overly familiar maid but now she clings onto her for protection, learning little things from her every day.

As she passes from the care of the Hound to Shae she gives a small curtsey, always remembering her manners, and when he snorts and waves her off, she wraps his white cloak tighter around her and pretends that he’s nicer than he is because inside she still has that want for everyone to be nicer than they are even when she knows all too well that they’re not.

“I heard the Hound has a name that looks a lot like yours on his wrist, my lady,” Shae murmurs to her when she’s helping her into the bath. The water sloshes over the redness of her skin where the knights had beaten her and Sansa wonders if Jon had felt it when she had been grabbed or struck the way she has so often felt the ghost of his wounds.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sansa replies, her cheeks flushing a deep red. She’s caught the way the Hound has looked at her; eyes dark with something different from anger. He has always been somewhat kinder to her than the rest of the Kingsguard, often disobeying the King’s direct orders to put her out of harm’s way, but Sansa could never and would never allow him to go further than that. The thought makes her squirm uncomfortably. “Ser Clegane is simply doing his duty to protect.”

Shae rolls her eyes and says no more.

 

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Sansa collapses one afternoon while out walking with Margaery and her ladies. One moment she is talking about the Tourney that had been held for Joffrey’s name-day and the next she is lying flat on the ground with a crowd of people surrounding her.

“Give her space to breathe,” Margaery tells the onlookers, voice gentle and persuasive, always letting the people know what a kind queen she will be. “How are you, Sansa?”

She feels fine apart from an excruciating pain in her leg. As she opens her mouth to tell Margaery this there is a sharp tug in the same area and then the pain lessens ever so slightly. This is the same as the burning hand; this is the same as the bumps and bruises she’s been finding all over her body, small spots of pain that make her wince when she presses her finger into them. This is a sign that although Jon is in pain and possibly danger he’s still alive.

“I think it’s too hot for me today,” she lies, taking a hand offered and getting to her feet. “I’m sorry for cutting our walk short, my lady, but I think I should lie down.”

“I’ll check on you later, Sansa,” Margaery says, letting go of her hand. “I hope it’s not too serious.”

“I’m just being silly,” she replies and smiles weakly. As she walks away she reaches down and rubs over where the mark on her leg should be, trying not to limp too much in order to avoid suspicion.

When she gets back to her room she dismisses her maids and lies on her bed. She lies there with a smile on her face that feels stupid after so long with nothing to smile about and she makes up a life where she and Jon had had a chance. She’s not hoping for a happy ever after anymore, all she wishes for is a chance.

With the battles raging on stronger than ever and people dying everywhere you turn a chance feels just as impossible.

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News comes of Theon sacking Winterfell and burning Bran and Rickon for everyone to see. The wail that breaks from Sansa’s throat is ugly and raw; years and pain away from the sweet singing she used to enjoy. Her brothers were innocent in this game of thrones and now they’re pawns and martyrs who died at Theon Greyjoy’s hand.

“Theon wouldn’t do this,” she denies at first to anyone who will listen. “He loved us. He wouldn’t hurt Bran and Rickon.”

“Theon Greyjoy was a hostage in your home,” Tywin Lannister tells her, all hard edges and a stiff mouth. “This was his revenge.”

“My family are traitors,” she drones, the response automatic when a Lannister addresses her. “My brother was to be the Lord of Winterfell with my traitor brother gone -- he deserved what he got.”

“How cold of you, Lady Stark,” Tywin sighs. “Family _is_ family, after all.”

But half of her family are dead and if she doesn’t proclaim the other half as traitors to the throne it will be her head on the spike next.

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So soon after Sansa flowers and becomes a woman the Battle of Blackwater begins and fire and blood flow in the water beneath the Red Keep. The night stretches out into one long moment where Sansa can’t decide if she’d rather the Lannisters win and this horrible situation to continue or for Stannis to storm the city and perhaps treat her just as badly for the doings of her brother.

The Hound hides in her chambers and steals a song from her, eyes terrified and empty. Stannis is losing -- too late she prays for his victory and a way out of here. In a fit of madness Sansa wishes she had the Hound’s name etched on her wrist. To run with him and be with him is a delirious dream compared to the life that is unfolding for her. She could leave with him even without his name; they could find part of her family scattered across the Seven Kingdoms and Sansa could pretend this has all been a nightmare.

But instead she stays and he goes and when Stannis loses Sansa swallows and holds her head high and lives another day.

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One of her maids comes to her rooms after she has broken her fast to tell her that Lady Margaery has requested her company in the gardens.

"Did she tell you why?" Sansa asks, not worrying about the answer. Margaery has been the closest friend she's found in this place.

"No, my lady, but I think it may be wedding preparations."

"Of course," Sansa says with a small smile that hurts her cheeks. "I will be there as soon as I have dressed."

By the time she has dressed the sun has risen high above the city casting the buildings and the surrounding waters in a beautiful light. It makes it harder to focus on the riots breaking out across the city due to the food shortage and the abuse that follows any of the royal family when they venture out of the Red Keep. Sansa pauses at the top of the steps down to the garden to take in the beauty of the place. This is the reason she left Winterfell and fell into the horrible sequence that has followed.

When she reaches Margaery she is surrounded by cousins and maids. Catching sight of Sansa she dismisses them with the promise of lemon cakes and gossip later once she and Sansa have had a chat.

There's something enchanting about having Margaery Tyrell's full attention. She turns her whole body towards Sansa, ankles crossed and hands folded neatly in her lap. There’s a sparkle in her eye that Sansa adores because that tiny hint of something hidden within her is more lively and fun than anything else Sansa has seen in her time here.

“Can you believe there’s to be seventy-seven courses during the wedding feast?” Margaery tells Sansa as she sits down. “It feels shameful when there are so many who have so little.”

“This feast is for a King and his Queen,” Sansa points out. She takes a lemon cake when Margaery offers the plate to her, savouring the sharp tang of citrus on her tongue before she continues. “I’m sure the people of the city will understand this is the way it should be done.”

Margaery keeps her eye on her for a long moment, head tilted like Sansa is something fascinating to be studied. She shifts in her chair, brushes a hand across her lips to check for crumbs. “You keep your name covered,” Margaery observes, the comment appearing from nowhere. “Do you have a shameful name?” she teases. “Is it a maid?”

“Can that happen?” Sansa asks. She’s never heard of two ladies or two men being bonded; that sounds almost as bad as having your half-brother’s name. “How strange.”

Margaery shrugs. “No stranger than the gods matching people’s souls to be bound together for eternity. In fact,” she smiles, “don’t you think it would wonderful sharing a life with another girl. Men are useful, they are, but sometimes they’re so dreadfully dull.”

“Knights could never be dull,” Sansa says, then pauses. “Well, some of the Kingsguard can be,” and then she blushes. “I shouldn’t say that.”

“No, you’re quite right, Sansa. My brother Loras has always wanted to be a knight in the Kingsguard even when I told him they’re the most boring people I’ve ever met.” Margaery laughs again, her head tilting back so her hair extends down her back in a fair waterfall.

“Has Loras met his soulmate yet?” Loras Tyrell is one of the most handsome men Sansa has ever seen. The rose he gave her at the Hand’s Tourney sat in a jug beside her bed long after it went limp.

Margaery nods. “Sadly they passed away before they could spend much time together.” Her face drops for a moment but then she smiles again. “Don’t try and distract me from your soulmate, Sansa. Tell me about them.”

It’s been almost two years and Sansa hasn’t told anyone the name on her wrist. Some days she forgets all about it and others, when she hears whispers about trouble at The Wall, she can barely make it through the day without wanting to send a dozen ravens to Jon and make sure he’s okay. It’s an awful feeling, one that she can’t rein in, and it feels a thousand times worse not being able to share it with anyone.

She’s learned a lot since her father’s execution; she’s not naive enough to trust anyone in the city, but Margaery is kind and clever and sweet and Sansa thinks she might be able to trust her.

“It’s Jon Snow,” she murmurs into the space between them.

"Jon Snow?"

"My half-brother," Sansa elaborates. Her hands are shaking as she folds her cuffs over again and again, exposing the white cloth around her wrist.

Margaery blinks in a rare show of surprise. "Oh, Sansa."

"I know," and she bows her head in the shame she's always feeling. "It's disgusting."

But Margaery shakes her head. "This is soulmates. They're not disgusting, in any form; yours is just a bit... unusual."

 _Unusual_ isn't the correct word but Sansa appreciates the effort. "It doesn't matter anyway -- Jon's in the Night's Watch, he can't be with a soulmate, even if his was me which I don't think it was."

She feels like a little girl wailing about the unfairness of her love when there's a war raging across the Seven Kingdoms and Margaery has already been widowed before she's reached ten-and-six. But there's something so kind about Margaery that Sansa can't help but tell her everything.

"Well," Margaery says, clapping her hands together. "I have a solution you might like. My brother -- no, not Loras -- my older brother back in Highgarden, Willas, his name is scarred but he’s wanted a wife for as long as I can remember. The two of you are very similar; perhaps when the wedding here is over I can take you back to Highgarden and you can meet Willas.”

To marry someone who isn’t her soulmate sits wrongly in Sansa’s belly but with Jon on the other side of Westeros and bound to the Watch Sansa is going to have to marry someone else or end up an old maid, a prospect which has been horrifying ever since Sansa was a little girl and learned of weddings and marriage. “I would love to meet Willas,” she says, smiling.

Margaery beams, delighted. "We shall be true sisters at last."

Talk of sisters makes Sansa think of Arya, missing, presumed dead. It makes her think of their last conversation, one she can't remember fully but surely contained nasty words and seething anger. She misses her desperately now.

"Since you told me your secret I'll confess mine," Margaery says, leaning in with a conspiratorial glance around her. "My grandmother is terrific at artwork; she spent her days as a maid drawing everything she could see."

"I've never been much good at drawing," Sansa says, not wanting to say that her secret had been much bigger and more dangerous than this. "I would love to be able to do that."

"Well," Margaery says, words not much more than a breath between them despite the emptiness of the garden. "Such a talent comes in very useful at times," and then she shows Sansa her wrist where Joffrey's name curls across her skin. With a grin that is so sharp Sansa almost flinches she rubs at the length of the _y_ until it smudges.

Sansa bites hard at her lip to hold back her gasp. “He isn’t your soulmate?”

“ _Shh_ ,” Margaery insists, her hand pressing quick against Sansa’s mouth. The taste of her skin against her lips is flowery and clean and Sansa feels an absence when she takes her hand away with a small laugh. “I’m going to be the queen,” she says, her head held high. She already looks incredibly regal and proper to Sansa even though she dresses in a way some would say is fit for a whore. “And I’m going to do anything it takes to get me there.”

Once she has absorbed this Sansa leans forward to touch at Joffrey’s name, a glee building within her that is ugly and cruel, but if she has been damned to an unrequited love it gives her heaps and heaps of pleasure that Joffrey is too.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” she says, just as quietly but just as boldly as Margaery had spoken. “You’re going to be a wonderful queen.”

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One morning Sansa is awoken roughly by Shae. “My lady, quickly, the Queen is on her way.”

“Margaery?” Sansa asks, confused as she’s pulled out of bed and into her robe.

“The Queen Regent,” Shae hisses just as another of her maids announces Cersei’s arrival.

“Good morning, little dove,” Cersei says, sweeping into the room with the same air she has in every room. Some nights Sansa tries to imagine what it must be like to have the power and influence Cersei has in this men’s game but she can never manage. “How are you this morning?”

“Well, Your Grace.” She doesn’t dare ask why she’s here at this hour and with half of her maids with her. “I hope you are too.”

Cersei waves a hand dismissively, not deigning to answer her. Instead she tells Sansa to remove her robe and allow her maids to dress her in a gown she has brought with her. “A perfect fit,” she proclaims, lips bending into a small smile. “You’re going to be a beautiful bride, little dove.”

“A bride?” It had only been days ago that she and Margaery had talked about visiting Highgarden to meet Willas; he can’t have arrived this quickly, and besides, it had simply been a thought, nothing more. “I can’t be married,” she says, hand reaching for her wrist where Jon’s name burns as though he knows he is to be replaced.

“You can and you will, Sansa. A lot of planning has gone into this; you don’t want it to be a waste, do you?”

“But my soulmate,” Sansa pleads, frozen in place so the maids can’t get the dress past her shoulders. “I am meant for another.”

Cersei smiles, a grimace that pulls at her lips and makes her ugly. “Soulmates are for fools and little girls, Sansa. You must know that by now.”

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Sansa allows herself to be marched to the room by Joffrey who cackles and mutters in her ear about keeping it in the family the whole way up the aisle. She has a brief moment of escape when she questions if she could be wed in the godswood as she has been praying to the Old Gods of late but she is hushed immediately.

“Don’t look so upset, Sansa,” Cersei calls from the front pew when Sansa reaches the end and realises that this is truly happening. “This way you’ll be part of the family,” she says, echoing her son’s words.

There’s sympathy in Tyrion’s eyes as he says his vows, the priest nodding meaningfully at Sansa until she whispers her own, the words scraping at her throat on the way out. The cloaking is humiliating. She bends to allow Tyrion to remove her family cloak, feeling like she’s lost part of her skin, an ill-fitting replacement covering up the scars, and then that part is over. She is married.

For brief moments during the wedding feast Sansa manages to pretend that none of this is happening and it’s all a horrid dream she will wake from soon. She fills these moments by dancing with every man in the room apart from her husband who drinks steadily throughout the day.

“You’re a beautiful bride, Lady Stark,” Ser Trant leers when he has captured her in a dance. “Or Lady Lannister, I should say.”

“I am so happy to be part of this wonderful family,” she replies, swallowing back all of the other words that would lead to her head falling from her shoulders, Lannister bride or not. “The King is very kind to have given me this chance to redeem myself and prove I am much more than my traitor family.”

The knight nods. “His Grace is extremely kind,” he agrees.

With a graceful curtsey Sansa spins to find another partner, this time Garlan, the second Tyrell brother. He and his wife offered their congratulations earlier in the feast, both frowning and leaning down to make sure Sansa was okay. It’s clear from the way she has barely looked at her new husband that she is not okay but she’s learned by now how to put on a show. She straightens her back and allows Garlan to lead her around the floor, nodding and smiling when he tells her about Highgarden.

“Margaery is desperate to show it off to you,” he says on their final turn. “She belongs here but she misses her roses.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Sansa admits, already aching for it as much as she does for Winterfell. “I hope to see her roses some day.”

“It’s a rare thing, to find one’s soul mate,” Garlan tells her, changing the subject rapidly. “Tyrion may not be yours nor may he be your second or even third choice but he is likely to be a far better husband than many men in Westeros.”

It’s true -- despite his family Tyrion has always been kind to Sansa. She knows she could suffer much worse.

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Robb bounds himself with his soulmate instead of honouring his promise to the Freys. When Sansa is told of the deaths of her lady mother and her brother as a result of this she feels nothing beyond a dull humming in her ears which doesn’t leave her for weeks. She has not yet turned three-and-ten but already she has suffered more loss than she was ever built to bear. Tyrion is full of sorrow and sympathy but the sight of him makes her want to retch. He may not be quite as bad as the rest of his family but he is still a Lannister as she is still a Stark. She lies in the darkened room and replays the last memory she has of her family being happy before the King came and ruined everything. It makes her weep harder when she realises that she and Jon alone are the only ones still alive and she is certain she will never see him again.

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The bed is cold and empty. Tyrion has been courteous and promised to keep his distance which Sansa greatly appreciates but she longs for comfort. At home in Winterfell when the nights were colder than even they were used to sometimes she and Arya would huddle together for warmth, a truce drawn for the night hours.

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Although she no longer finds much solace in praying in the godswood she continues to return there every day in order to seek peace. She crouches by the largest of the trees, leaves collecting around her feet, and she closes her eyes; sat like this she can pretend that she is back in the godswood in Winterfell. When she breathes in, the scent of the leaves is the same, earthy and soothing, and it makes it easier to remember when she and Jon had sat so close and talked like siblings should.

A rustle behind her makes her leap to her feet, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. “Is anyone there?” she calls, waiting.

When a figure finally emerges from behind the trees Sansa’s breathing calms. “Dontos, what is it?”

“You promised to call me Florian,” Dontos insists, the way he does every time.

“Of course,” she agrees, anything for information. “Florian, do you have news?”

He hops from foot to foot, anxious to spill his news but wanting to draw the moment out for as long as he can. “My lady, my Jonquil, we can leave after the wedding feast.”

“Oh, that’s only next week! How can you be sure?”

“Leave the arrangements to me. You’ll be home before you know it, my lady,” Dontos promises, doing a wonky little bow that has him stumbling into a tree.

Once Dontos has left in a cloud of wine fumes Sansa turns back to the tree she had disregarded before. Now she closes her eyes and holds her hands close to her heart, thanking her gods for offering her the salvation she had given up hoping for.

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As the King chokes to death in front of his kingdom Sansa slips out of the courtyard and down dozens of stairs until she reaches Dontos and his boat. Her breath is coming in quick gasps, hands fumbling on the rocks she has to climb down, and she can feel a sob working its way up her throat, but she’s escaping, she’s leaving. If there wasn't so much fear buried deep in her belly she could sing.

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Littlefinger takes her to the Vale where her Aunt Lysa sits high high high above the ground. There he wraps everyone around his finger, locking them into his trust with his sleazy charm and thinly-veiled threats. Before Sansa has had the chance to talk with her Aunt more than a few times she is tossed to her death and Sansa becomes Petyr’s bastard niece Alayne.

She wears her new role like a new pair of slippers. Once she has broken them in, made them softer, they’re a lot more comfortable, easier to work with, so she makes friends with the other girls around the Eyrie, giggles with them in a way Sansa Stark can never manage anymore. The bastard girls here talk about men in frank terms Sansa has never said aloud; they are full of lewd thoughts about what they want and when they want it and how exactly to go about getting it. If they notice the cloth on Sansa’s wrist they don’t mention it; it’s a relief to feel invisible in a place like this after her name has brought her danger for so long.

But the girls can’t be there forever. Each night Sansa returns to the chamber where Petyr sits waiting for her. He never gets into bed with her, never attempts to take her maidenhead, but some nights he makes her sit in his lap or feed him or simply tell him how wonderful she finds him, how dependent she is on his good heart. When Petyr smiles that horrible smile and pats his lap expectantly, his manhood pressing against her through his breeches, she fantasises about grabbing the nearest blunt object and getting rid of him for good.

But that won’t do her any favours when the region is in the palm of Littlefinger’s hand so she says what she’s told and she smiles when she’s told and she dreams and dreams of a way out of here.

There is no godswood in the Eyrie, no heart tree, and so Sansa has to kneel where she can and hope that if she shows enough faith both the Old Gods and The Seven will continue to send what help they can.

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Due to the jaded lack of belief in them in King’s Landing Sansa has not been pressed about the name on her wrist. In the South they are seen as nothing more than an interference from the gods to get in the way of political alliances whereas the North treats them with reverence, a bounding honour. In the North no one asks you your name before you’re ready to give it.

But Petyr Baelish isn’t from the North nor is he from the South; Petyr lives in his own little world where he is King and gods are nonexistent. To Petyr soulmates get in the way of what he wants but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get a twisted sense of pleasure when those intended for each other are unconventional. He knows about the Jaime covered on Cersei’s wrist and the false Joffrey on Margaery’s but he keeps his mouth shut for once because with soulmates, down in the South, no one cares.

He knows Sansa does, though, so one night when she is stiff as a stone on his lap, lemony crumbs all over her fingers, he wrenches back her arm quick and rips off her cloth.

“Jon,” he says, head tilted in consideration. In the scuffle with her wrist Sansa has managed to escape Petyr’s lap and is backed against the stone wall of her room. She feels bile climb in her throat at the thought of Petyr coming to the right conclusions; she’s heard the rumours about Cersei and Jaime, a half-brother is just as shameful. Petyr smirks at the terror in her eyes. “Jon _Snow_. Oh, Sansa, my sweet Sansa.”

Sansa swallows the saliva that is threatening to choke her. “It means nothing. Jon is a bastard.”

“But so are you, sweetling,” he reminds her. “It appears the two of you are bound for good reason.”

She finds the words that always work. “I love you, my lord, and only you.”

“I know, sweetling,” he replies, voice soothing. Sansa’s fists remain clenched at her sides. “But I know how important these names are to your family and I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of true love.” His eyes are glinting now, dark and angry. “Have I told you about my name, Sansa? My lovely Cat. I thought we would marry as soon as she flowered; the months leading up to her name-day I couldn’t be happier, but then, can you believe, it wasn’t my name carved into her skin but your uncle’s. After he died his horrible untimely death and your Lady Mother married your father, well, you see it didn’t turn out well for them in the end.”

“They were happy,” she manages to say.

Petyr frowns, cloth still tight in his hand. “Well, Sansa, I don’t think you and your Jon will be getting the same happy ending.”

“He’s not dead,” she whispers, wishing the last few minutes had never happened.

“Not yet, sweetling,” he says, that smile back in place. “But the Night’s Watch is a dangerous profession. Anything could happen to him while The Wall is under attack from the wildlings.”

Sansa doesn’t reply, doesn’t dare to. Instead she takes in a breath and then another. “You’re right, my lord, as always. I have been foolish with my wishes; I know that I will never see my bastard brother Jon again and I could not be happier.”

“Alayne doesn’t have any brothers remember, my dear,” he says, back to himself already. He is known across the Seven Kingdoms as one of the slyest, most dangerous men, but Sansa is astounded at how far a few well said words go. “Now put your cloth back on and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she agrees and then does a little curtsey that has his cheeks flushing with lust. “Would you like another lemon cake?”

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A stout smuggler with kind eyes calls to Sansa as she’s walking down by the river three moons' turns after Aunt Lysa’s death. Since the unravelling of Sansa’s wrist, Littlefinger has been turning both crueler and more charming by the day, creating tales where the two of them will recapture Winterfell and make a bid to rule the North again with Sansa the head of House Stark. She knows now not to believe these silly fairy tales. They have no army, no contacts; Petyr’s best chance of power is to stay exactly where he is and reveal Sansa’s whereabouts when the best opportunity strikes.

And so it is with a daring leap that Sansa approaches the man, knowing that Petyr could be watching and that as much as he claims to love her he could punish her for disobeying his order to stay away from strangers. She inclines her head towards the smuggler. “How can I help you, ser?”

“If I’m not mistaken it is you that can help me,” and then he pauses and stares at her intently for such a long moment Sansa begins to feel uncomfortable. “Lady Sansa,” he says eventually, hesitation clouding his voice. “Is that you?”

She has been known as Alayne for so long now it is like breaking the surface of the water hearing someone call her by the name her family gave her; she still belongs in this world if someone knows her name. “Who are you?” she asks, remembering to be wary.

“Davos Seaworth, my lady,” he murmurs, bowing his head slightly in respect. “I have been searching for you for a long time.”

“How did you find me?” she whispers, trembling with relief. She doesn’t consider the possibility that perhaps this man is more dangerous than Littlefinger; such an option seems impossible.

“An extremely stubborn knight has been unable to rest while you wander free from your family’s home. She told me of her suspicions that Baelish had you and enlisted my help,” Davos explains. “My ship has proven useful to her needs and now that we know you are alive it will help us make a quick departure.”

“You’re rescuing me?” Sansa asks, taking steps towards him. He is missing the tops of fingers on one of his hands and he is trembling, glancing around him repeatedly, but Sansa inexplicably trusts him. “Can we leave now?”

Davos Seaworth reaches out as though to touch her shoulder but draws back again quickly. “My lady, that is all I want.”

So she mimics what he had attempted and failed and takes his hand, fingers locking around his. “Let’s go. Quickly.”

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They have been sailing for a short while before Davos’ shoulders relax. He turns to her with a smile; Sansa has seen a great many smiles during her time in King’s Landing and the Vale, almost all of them false, but this one settles within her and she feels herself try and return it.  

A tall blonde woman appeared as soon as they stepped foot onto the ship, her eyes roaming over Sansa’s hair, her eyes, before nodding almost triumphantly. She had bowed low as though she were a man and when she had risen she had said, “Lady Sansa, it is an honour to finally meet you.”

At first Sansa keeps her distance, sticking close to Davos Seaworth, but after a while she approaches the odd knight called Brienne of Tarth. “Ser Seaworth told me what you did for my mother,” she says. “Thank you.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady Sansa,” she replies, again inclining her head. “My promise to your lady mother was to return her daughters safely to their home --”

“My home has been taken from my family and my sister is missing,” Sansa interrupts, “but I am glad you found me.”

“We’re heading to Castle Black,” Davos tells Sansa. “Your brother Jon is there with King Stannis; it may not be home but at least you’ll be with family.”

Family. Jon. For so long Sansa has prayed for those words and now the Seven have given them to her. Sansa excuses herself from the company and finds a quiet space on the ship to lie down. She lets her mind imagine what might be waiting for her at Castle Black, her thoughts wandering into fantasies of seeing Jon, of standing behind a King with a chance for power. After her time in the South and then with Petyr, the fact that she is finally returning to the North is enough to have her drifting off into a dreamless sleep, eager for what’s on the other side.

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Jon is different from the last time Sansa saw him. It is not just his age that has changed but the way he holds himself, the person in power, so much more than a bastard. He looks incredibly like their father standing there, so much so that Sansa's heart quickens and she has to peer at the wildness of his beard and the tense stand to tell her that it is Jon and not Ned Stark standing before her. He is talking with a group of his men, pointing to a sheet in his hands and directing out the men accordingly. Davos makes a move to go over and alert him to Sansa’s arrival but Sansa holds him back, content to stand among the black cloaks who look to her brother for guidance.

“You do not look very alike, if you don’t mind me saying, my lady,” Brienne observes from her spot beside Sansa. During the journey here Sansa has gotten to know Brienne as a knight and also a confidante. She is keen to stay in her place but when Sansa had continued to ask her questions about her mother and her journey with Jaime Lannister she had opened up a little, producing dry comments and funny phrases. If Sansa is to stay here for a time she hopes that Brienne will stay by her side.

Now, she turns to the knight, humming in agreement. “Jon has always had our father’s Stark colouring like Arya while the rest of us have the auburn Tully hair and blue eyes like our mother.”

“Sansa!” she hears before Brienne can reply, and when she turns it’s to see Jon walking quickly towards her. When they reach each other they pause for a moment unsure of how to continue given their past relationship but then Sansa steps forward and wraps her arms around Jon’s neck, holding on.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says into his neck, words muffled by the furs.

“I’m so glad to see you, Sansa,” he tells her, arms tight around her. It doesn’t feel real, that not so long ago she was in the Eyrie with Littlefinger pretending to be someone she wasn’t, and now she’s here, Sansa again, with someone she’s known her whole life. She leans further into Jon until there’s no room at all between them and she breathes in, winter falling around her. It’s too soon to be happy but it feels right to be at Castle Black with Jon.

When she pulls away she rubs at her eyes and then she looks around her. They’ve caused a stir, the heir of Winterfell, the King’s Hand, and an unknown knight appearing with no warning. Jon takes Sansa’s arm and leads her away from the biggest crowds; when they reach a secluded spot not far from the main body of the Castle he lets her go and steps back to give her space.

“You look so different, Jon,” she tells him. Gone is the scrawny boy who had been uncomfortable wherever he went and in his place is a tall man with a strong head on his shoulders. She wonders how different she is to him, if the fact that she feels like a whole new person is obvious to an outsider. “Ser Davos tells me you’re the Lord Commander now.”

“That’s what they wanted,” he says, bashful. “It’s hard work.”

“Is Stannis as just as they say?”

He nods firmly. “He’s the most just man I know.”

“Including Father?”

And then he smiles, a small sad smile that tells Sansa how broken he feels too now that all but the two of them are dead. “Perhaps even including our father.”

“My knight, Brienne, blames him for the death of Renly.”

“He has been blindsided by the faith of R’hllor,” Jon frowns. “The red woman by his side, Melisandre, has made him do terrible things in the name of religion, including the death of his brother.”

“Too many people have died, Jon,” she says, turning her head to where the crowd are now dispersing, a tall figure emerging from the door. “When will we be able to go home?”

He doesn’t say his home is with the Watch nor does he say he will never return to Winterfell; he just shrugs his shoulders and promises, “Soon.”

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When Sansa meets Stannis Baratheon she looks him directly in the eye and tells him that she should like to be some help to his committee planning the attack on Winterfell. “I know that castle better than anyone here,” she tells him, and then ducks her head, “well, apart from possibly Jon.”

The King has a way of looking at people that tells them exactly how to feel and what to say. Sansa is not sure what makes a Great King anymore but she knows that Stannis Baratheon would be leagues more successful than Joffrey or even Robert. He is firm but fair when dealing with everyone from the leader of the wildlings to the youngest boys of the Watch. Sansa watches him step back and allow Jon to command his men but come forward when Jon is floundering and in need of help. She watches the way he keeps the foreign woman dressed all in red closer than his wife and the way his face changes slightly into something less sharp when his daughter is around. If she were to have a say in who takes the Iron Throne she would give her support to Stannis.

To show this she offers help in the areas she knows best. She has spent too long helpless and useless yet she knows the information she’s gained from both King’s Landing and the Eyrie could help Stannis’ agenda for the South.

“Jon and I can rally the North around the Starks once more when we take back Winterfell, Your Grace. With the North behind you the fight for the throne will be significantly easier.”

Stannis doesn’t speak for a long moment. He folds his arms and stares at Sansa, brow creased, with no feature betraying his response until he’s ready to give it. “You are not what I expected, Lady Stark. Lord Snow briefly told me what he remembered of you when you were children; he mentioned nothing of battle plans and knowledge of politics.”

“I am no longer the girl Jon knew me as, Your Grace,” she replies. “I have suffered severely in the South but I have also learned plenty and I want to put my knowledge to use.”

Now Stannis unfolds his arms, the crease between his brows lessening slightly. “It is much appreciated, Lady Stark. The sooner we march on Winterfell the better.

As she is leaving Stannis clears his throat, prompting her to pause. “Your Grace?”

“I was never fond of your father and I met your mother only a handful of times but they were good people who did not deserve their deaths. I trust they would be proud of their daughter doing what she can to make sure they did not die in vain.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

****  
  


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Jon finds her later. She has been given a room high in the King’s Tower because although a King is here she is also a guest of honour. Up this high with so little around them the views of The Wall are breath-taking. Since she was small Sansa has loved the culture of the South but the North has always been where she has felt most content, most needed. It’s taken a long, hard, lesson to learn that.

After he has knocked on the door and Sansa has told him to enter, Jon sits on the chair across from where she is sat on the bed. He doesn’t speak at first, only sits. She continues to read the book she found beside her bed detailing the history of The Wall, allowing Jon to talk in his own time.

“Stannis offered me Winterfell,” Jon says quietly. “He offered to legitimise me if I wanted it.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That Winterfell belongs to you.”

“It can belong to the both of us,” Sansa says, putting her book to the side. “If Stannis is giving you the option to leave the Watch and take Winterfell you should take it.”

“Who would become Lord Commander?” Jon asks, not refusing Sansa’s plan. “Stannis’ll take my head if they have to go through another vote again.”

“Ser Denys would be glad to replace you I should think. That is, if you want to leave.”

Jon takes in a breath, exhales. “I don’t want to be parted from you again, Sansa.”

It’s aching, deep inside her, that want to tell Jon everything, painful to be so close to him and yet not be with him the way soulmates are supposed to be. She runs a finger over the white cloth that has covered her wrist all these years and when she raises her head to tell Jon thank you she catches him doing the same to his own.

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“You’re my soulmate,” Jon blurts out the next time they’re alone. Stannis is planning to start his march to Winterfell within the next two days; the longer they wait the more Winterfell’s unlawful inhabitants will be prepared. Jon is planning to march with him along with a dozen of the Watch. It’s not a lot but it’s considerably more than should be departing their posts for a war they should have no part in so Stannis cannot make a fuss. Sansa is going too; before Jon had come to her she had been telling Shireen about the castle and how excited she is to be going home. Shireen had barely left the room before Jon had made his announcement, eager for everything to be on the table before they leave for another war.

Sansa knows now that even though she has had her doubts she has always known that she is Jon’s name just as he is hers. She knows now that they’re far more similar than she ever could have imagined and that to have anyone else in the world would be false. But still, it’s wonderful to hear the words she’s been waiting for finally said to her face.

“Oh, Jon, you’re mine too,” she replies, mouth running out the words too quickly so they blur together.

Jon has gotten the gist, though, as his face lights up in a way she’s never seen before. The dark of his eyes that she could never read when they were children is suddenly telling her everything -- that he loves her and that he wants to be with her and that the time they were apart was made a thousand times harder knowing that they would probably never see each other again.

His fingers scrabble with the cloth on his wrist, unrolling the material until the pale skin underneath appears, and there’s Sansa’s name, curly _a_ s and sweeping _S_. He presents the name to her as though she will not believe him without proof. Reaching out she traces the letters, touch feather-light; Jon shivers.

“Show me yours,” he asks her.

Her wrist seems to tingle slightly when she takes off the cloth, this time removing it completely and sitting it on the bed -- she has no need for it now. When she holds out her arm the way Jon did he takes her hand in both of his, eyes wide with a joy Sansa has never thought she would see on anyone's face again, never mind Jon's.

"I wish I had told you sooner," Sansa says, voice not much more than a breath as together they look at Jon's name on her wrist. "We could have avoided so much pain."

His thumb drags across her skin, callouses built from wielding a sword pressing down. To feel this contact with him, with the purpose and emotion intended behind it, it makes Sansa feel dizzy. There's a war going on across Westeros, a war that has torn Sansa apart from the inside out, and they will get back to that, soon, but oh, it is so easy to sit here and bask in the swell of happiness she has long heard so much about.

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The ride to Winterfell is long and cold. The horses travel slowly over the snow-covered rocks, careful not to slip and throw their owners to their deaths. Sansa rides with Brienne while Jon rides upfront with Stannis.

Brienne is still cold with the King but she is slowly coming around. They have left Melisandre back at Castle Black with Selyse and Shireen for the time being and her absence has lightened the atmosphere considerably. “He is not his brother,” she tells Sansa on their sixth day as they travel down by the Long Lake.

“That may not be entirely a bad thing,” Sansa says delicately, aware of her knight’s feelings for the late Renly. “He is not Robert either. He may not be a perfect King but he is much preferable to Cersei controlling the throne through her sons.”

Brienne huffs but Sansa knows it’s a reluctant agreement. Hearing of her place on Renly’s Rainbow Guard, Stannis had been wary of Brienne and it had only been with Sansa’s insistence that she had been allowed to accompany them. Sansa is grateful for the company. As they near Winterfell and the horrors that lie waiting there her belly churns uncomfortably and her head spins into overdrive, concocting scenarios that they may find. There had been rumours that Arya had been forced into a marriage with Ramsay Snow, the Bolton bastard, but that had been so awful that Sansa hadn’t allowed herself to even think about it. When they had had heard that their sister may be close but subjected to the actions of a monster Sansa and Jon had huddled together and prayed that their strong sister was somewhere far from here.  

“Tell me about Tarth, ser,” Sansa asks Brienne, searching for a distraction. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is, my lady,” she says, lips curving into a smile. “The water glitters like sapphires even on the dullest of days. It’s a small island, only a few hundred live there, but they live in harmony.” Brienne stops here and Sansa thinks she has finished when she adds, “When I was a child my lord father would always have a singer present so I could learn their beautiful songs.”

“Perhaps one day we could visit,” but Sansa is only being polite -- once she is back in Winterfell she is never leaving the North again.

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During their final night’s camp before they reach Winterfell the following day, Jon approaches Sansa, gesturing for her to follow him. They haven’t spent much time together on the journey; Jon has been busy with Stannis while Sansa has been raising morale within the small women community. To be near him after so long apart but unable to talk to him for more than a moment a day is difficult but Sansa knows this part will be over soon.  

She excuses herself from the group surrounding her and heads over to the bend in the road Jon disappeared around. As she is approaching him her foot slips, skating out from under her, and for a brief second she falls.

"Careful," Jon's hand catches her, pulling her against him for a moment. He guides her to a hollowed rock, least touched by the heavy snow, and they sit down.

“How is the King?” Sansa asks.

“It’s hard to tell how he’s feeling,” Jon replies, staring up at the sky.

“I could never tell how you were feeling,” she tells him. “When we were children my mother would be so cold to you, I could be too, but you wouldn’t know by the way you carried on.”

“Your mother was a very brave, great, woman,” he says quietly. “We had an understanding about my living in her home.”

Sansa sighs. She tilts her head back, mimicking Jon, and watches a small flurry of snow cascade to the ground. “I feel I hardly know you at all.”

“I feel the same,” he agrees. “But once this is all over we’ll have time.”

“It’s hard to imagine it all being over, isn’t it?” It has been two years since King Robert was killed by a boar and the game of thrones became a widespread war; two years is a short time when placed in history but to Sansa it is difficult to remember her life before it and it is unimaginable how she will live after the end.

“Our lives have changed in ways that can never be reversed.” Jon’s voice has deepened to a low timbre that could easily be mistaken for her father’s with her gaze turned away from him like this. Such a small thing has her close to tears, the longing for her family that is always within her rising to her throat in powerful waves. “When I heard about Bran and Rickon, what Theon had done --”

“I told myself it couldn’t have been them, that Theon would do no such thing, if only so I could make it through the day. Rickon was only a baby, and poor Bran could do nothing but cling to Hodor’s shoulders, they had nothing to do with all of this.”

“If Theon is found in Winterfell he’ll be the first head I’ll take,” Jon promises, eyes hard when they meet Sansa’s.

“I prayed for a knight,” Sansa says, “and when your name appeared on my skin I was so cross I pretended it didn’t exist, but now I know you’re a knight, too, and even if you weren’t I would love you forever, soulmate or not, brother or not.”

“This isn’t the Sansa I remember,” Jon says, brow creasing, but then he’s smiling, and Sansa’s heart swells. “I’ll love you too,” he tells her, so serious Sansa’s smile fades a little. “But first I must tell you something.”

“Something bad?” Sansa asks, judging his tone.

But he shakes his head. “Not bad.” He extends his hand to her and when Sansa takes it she knows this is the one that she had felt burning for hours on end. It is scarred yet with a myriad of callouses and when Sansa squeezes she can feel the tightness of the burned skin. “Shortly before your arrival at Castle Black Maester Aemon told me about my mother.”

Sansa free hand claps against her mouth.

“And my father,” he continues, and now Sansa moves closer to him, leaning into him, because this is a huge shock to Sansa but she can’t imagine how it must feel to Jon.

“But you look so like him,” she says.

“I’m still a Stark,” Jon says, and he’s proud of this, the way Sansa always has been despite her old obsession with all things South. “Lyanna was my mother and Rhaegar Targaryen was my father.”

“What does this mean, Jon?” He shrugs, and Sansa wants to ask how he’s dealing with this, if he is saddened by the fact that he is not their sibling at all, but she doesn’t want to push him. If they have time to get to know one another again they have time to talk about how they have felt about everything that has been thrown at them. “Do you have a claim?”

“Maester Aemon said it is possible but the King on the Iron Throne has never been a dream of mine. Stannis is free to it; I am happy to stay at Winterfell.”

“When I first saw your name on my arm I thought there was something wrong,” Sansa admits to him now, her face to her knees. “It made no sense for you to be my soulmate.”

“I don’t think soulmates have ever made sense to anyone,” Jon says, and when Sansa raises her head she sees the corner of his mouth quirk slightly into a smile. “Imagine how it was for me when I saw your name. I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” she says, cheeks scarlet. “We were never each other’s favourite siblings.”

“And now we’re not siblings at all.”

He sounds almost sad about that. Sansa supposes she is too. Only, “We’re still related. This is still highly improper.”

“After all we’ve been through, Sansa, I think we’re allowed that.”

And Sansa tilts her head towards his, closes her eyes, and presses her lips to his. The kiss is brief, just long enough for Jon to return the smallest amount of pressure, and then it becomes too much and Sansa has to pull back. Littlefinger had kissed her once; it had been disgusting and slimy and she had felt like she could retch afterwards. With Jon everything inside her seems to slow down and freeze, letting her enjoy this tiny moment of happiness.

“I’ve heard so much about soulmates’ first kiss,” she whispers, the words clumsy in her mouth. She can feel Jon’s shoulder warm against hers and she leans into it. “I never imagined it would feel like that.”

Jon kisses her again and this time she opens her mouth slightly, whole body shivering with delight when Jon’s arm reaches around her and presses her against him. She had almost given up on this, resigning herself to a life in the Eyrie with Littlefinger hovering over her shoulder, but oh, she is so glad she is being allowed to kiss Jon and be with him in this way. Aside from the safe return of her siblings, this is what she wants.

****  
  


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Sansa and Jon are wed in the godswood a moon’s turn after King Stannis takes Winterfell from the Boltons. They marry while the rebuilding of their home is going on around them and the head of Ramsay Snow rots on top of the gates. It’s a small wedding; Stannis and a handful of his men are present, their last obligation before they head South, and Brienne stands by Sansa’s other side, and there is no need for anyone else.

Jon’s parentage has been told to only a few people, the King included, but even with their assumed knowledge concerning their familial relationship, the people who have survived through Winterfell’s terror have nothing but support for the Lord and Lady marrying in a show not far from the Targaryens or the Lannisters.

Brienne escorts Sansa to the weirwood tree where Jon waits, their cloaks already matching. They say their vows quietly, eyes only on each other, and then, with a show to tradition, Jon removes Sansa’s Stark cloak and replaces it with another.

They take each other’s hand, wrists free of cloth, and they pray.

This is not Sansa’s first wedding but this is the one that she wants and so this is the one that will last.

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It takes a lot of hard work to rebuild a castle the size of Winterfell after it has gone through the extensive damage it has. Jon and Sansa both oversee the plans, agreeing to make changes in some places and keeping other rooms the same as they were the last time the Starks were here together.

They bring the North back to the strong kingdom it once was under the rule of Eddard Stark. Jon insists that Sansa be the one in control, the one people address when they are in need of help, the one they proclaim as their ruler, their Lady. He is there by her side for when she needs advice but it is Lady Sansa they speak of when they tell their houses that Winterfell is regaining her strength.

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Some days Sansa wonders how things have worked out so well for her in the end. She was never the one meant for Winterfell, never the one who wished to marry a man with her blood, and yet she is here and she would not wish to be anywhere else. Arya is still out there somewhere and Stannis has not taken the Throne yet but in their little section of the world Sansa feels she and Jon are holding the castle to the best of their ability.

“Can you believe we’re home, Jon?” Sansa asks, long after Stannis has marched South and things are returning to as near to normal as possible. After breaking her fast with her maids she had fancied a walk, venturing out to the godswood as the sun was climbing the sky. After her first lap Ghost had joined her followed by Jon.

“I thought I would never see this place again,” Jon says. He wraps his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. “This is where we belong.”

“There must always be a Stark at Winterfell,” Sansa recites the mantra from their childhood, and then she twists and presses a kiss to Jon’s mouth. “How lucky that there should be two.”

Ghost appears as Jon is kissing Sansa’s cheek, winding his way between their legs. Sansa stumbles slightly into Jon, leaning against him. She feels for his hands, her fingers finding the name on his wrist from memory, and when she raises his hand to her mouth and kisses it gently she feels his sigh hit her neck.

“We should go back,” Jon says, voice rumbling through her. “Sam has plans to show us for the rebuilding of the Maester’s rooms.”

“Sam can have his rooms as big as he chooses.” Sansa likes Samwell Tarly, the friend who has believed in Jon the whole time. He is funny and kind and oddly bashful about Gilly and her son; he blushes whenever Sansa asks him about how he feels about her which only makes her want to ask him more. “Stay out here a little longer with me, Jon.”

And he mumbles about duty and leadership but he doesn’t step away from her hold, in fact, he walks them further into the godswood, away from the open edges of the trees. “We can’t stay here forever, Sansa,” he tells her even as he is peppering kisses across her cheek and down to her neck.

She giggles, head floaty and light. “Oh gods, Jon, why not? Sam and Brienne can run Winterfell in our stead.”

“What would your lord father say?” Jon replies, all mock-serious.

“ _Our_ lord father,” Sansa corrects him because despite the sin at its heart Sansa still thinks of Jon as a brother, as a lover, as a husband, and she doesn’t want any of those things to change. "He would say Sam and Brienne are fine choices for Winterfell."

"Alright," Jon admits defeat, "but you can't complain when Sam puts a library in every room and Brienne locks up the gates." 

"I won't complain," Sansa promises. "I'll have you all to myself all hours of the day." 

And then Jon grins. "I love you, Sansa." 

Sansa kisses him hard, hands fumbling for a hold on his clothing. "I love you, too, Jon Snow." 

This is where she belongs, for now and always.

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End file.
